


First Sip (that's all it takes)

by IMaketheMonsters



Category: Julie and The Phantoms (TV 2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Human, Cafe AU, F/M, Fluff, no beta we die like men, tossed a bunch of headcanons in a blender
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-23
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-13 08:01:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29648229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IMaketheMonsters/pseuds/IMaketheMonsters
Summary: He doesn't come for the coffee, but she doesn't need to know that.OR: The Music Cafe!AU that no one asked for
Relationships: Julie Molina/Luke Patterson
Comments: 11
Kudos: 90





	First Sip (that's all it takes)

**Author's Note:**

> Not me projecting my experiences of working at a café/dessert place for a couple years onto Juke and turning it into a fluff fic. Not at all lmao.  
> This was originally going to be a super long oneshot but I've learned that I don't have the patience for that so I'm splitting it into two or three parts. Enjoy!

It starts with his ass on the countertop.

There are five tables out on the floor at Morning Joe, each with its own triplet of straight-backed chairs and wobbly rubber feet. Julie would know, she’s had to wipe down all fifteen of them (plus the additional four set up around the twin tables by the window seat) three nights a week for the past year and seven months.

It’s a quiet start to what is usually a relatively busy evening at the café, which means Julie can easily pick out three perfectly available tables that this strange man could be sitting at. Instead, he’s leaning over the espresso machine with a sunny smile, swinging his long legs like he owns the place and asking if she knows any good rhymes for _pepperoni_.

She’s been trained for this. As per the Morning Joe Customer Experience manual, all she needs to do is slap on her best Pleased-to-Help-You expression and convince him that the seating area would be a much more comfortable place to enjoy his Cuppa Joe. It’s not a problem. Wacky customers are part of the job. She’s dealt with worse, honestly.

But then she’s staring at the mop of brown hair that’s been hastily shoved under an orange beanie, and the way his shirt sleeves have been cut off even though it’s fucking April in Vancouver, and the way the seat of his dark jeans is plastered all over the bar top that she _just wiped down_ , and what ends up leaving her mouth is, “There’s four bar stools at this fucking counter. Why can’t you just sit in one of those?”

He stares at her like she’s grown three heads. “Because this is my seat.”

“It’s a counter at a public establishment,” she deadpans. “It’s nobody’s seat.”

“Well, it’s mine.” Sleeveless-Stranger actually _pouts_ , setting down the notebook and pen in his hands to cross his arms across his chest. “Are you new here or something? I’ve never seen you before.”

“I’ve been here for almost two years,” she sputters indignantly, pointing the clean mug in her hands at him like she’s challenging him to a duel.

He just raises a haughty eyebrow (and Julie is not even the least bit distracted by how he looks like Jesse McCartney’s hipster lovechild. Not at all). “Well then, you haven’t been paying very close attention to your job.”

 _Okay. So he’s the type of fuckboy that stops being hot the minute he opens his perfect mouth._ She nearly slams the mug down onto the rubber mat below her feet. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”

The puppy-dog expression on his face has given way to a smirk, his eyes glimmering with such warmth that it catches her off-guard for a moment. She actually takes a step back, the outstretched mug faltering to her side as Sleeveless-Stranger holds out his hand for her to shake. “My name is Luke,” he says, and the charming grin that splits his face is so utterly confident she nearly smiles back.

Fortunately, she’s saved by the loud crashing that echoes out of the stock room in the back. A tall blond with gangly limbs stumbles out from behind the swinging doors, still fumbling with the strings of his apron.

“Jesus Christ, Alex, are you okay?” She’s closed with him twice a week for a year and still has yet to figure out how someone so gifted at latte art can be so accident-prone.

“Yeah, I just bruise easily,” he sighs, the standard response rolling off his tongue as he straightens his uniform. He catches sight of Sleeveless-Stranger ( _Luke,_ she amends reluctantly) and breaks out into an easy smile, leaning over the straw dispenser to give him a one-armed hug. “Hey, man! You’re here early today!”

“You _know_ this guy?”

Alex doesn’t seem to notice the crackling tension in the air. “Yeah, Luke and I went to high school together. He’s here pretty much every week for jam night! I’m surprised you’ve never seen him play.”

She briefly considers using the magic eraser under the sink to wipe the smug look off Luke’s face.

Alex ploughs on. “Monica made varsity for the UCLA swim team,” he tells his friend, by way of explanation, “So Julie’s covering Fridays from now on.”

“ _Julie,_ is it?” Luke rounds on her with a Cheshire grin.

“She’s the best in the business,” Alex tells him proudly, and she isn’t sure if the blush creeping up her neck is from the compliment or the way Luke is examining her face like he can see right through her.

“I’d be the happiest in the business if he got off the fucking counter,” she grumbles irritably, still unwilling to let go of her lingering resentment.

Alex squeezes her arm sympathetically. “Is your roommate still being an asshole?”

“She’s driving me _nuts,_ ” she groans, flailing her arms in an effort to punctuate just how _done_ she is with this girl. “She knows I work nights, so she always makes sure she locks me out of the bathroom for two hours while she uses all the hot water by the time I get home. I was going to ask her yesterday if she could just shower in the morning instead, since her classes don’t fucking start till noon anyways—I even made her a batch of my mom’s famous cookies—”

“—The ones with the little brownie chunks?” Alex cuts in eagerly.

“Yes! And instead of, oh I don’t know, _thanking me_ for going out of my way to do something nice for her, she told me she can’t change her shower time because it interferes with her diet and she doesn’t eat chocolate, which is a fat lie because I _know_ she ate my Oreos last month without asking!”

Luke asks, “Her _shower_ time interferes with her _diet_?” at the same time that Alex screeches, “She _rejected_ the Molina cookies?!”

 _"That’s what I said!”_ she screeches back, waving her arms wildly as if to answer both of them at the same time. She plops down into a crouch behind the counter as the bell above the front door jingles, hiding herself from the view of the couple now approaching the till.

“Alex,” she beseeches, “Alex, my favourite co-barista of all time, my one and only love, I’ve been here for two hours and if I have to help one more hipster with a guitar that thinks they can sing I’m going to throw myself off the Lion’s Gate bridge.”

To his credit, Alex doesn’t seem the least bit fazed by her dramatics. He just pats her on the head and steps around her to meet the guests at the till, calmly saying, “Unless you have a dick, I’ll have to reject your proposal,” under his breath as he passes.

Luke, who is still perched on the far end of her (now filthy) bar top and is therefore the only paying guest that can still see her, chokes on his latte, snorting aggressively until a goopy mess of brown milk foam drips from his nose.

“Dude!” she hisses (in a voice that is much too loud for someone hiding from customers at her own job), “That is so gross!” He’s too busy laughing to answer, but he catches the dish towel that she whips in his direction with both hands.

He’s still cleaning up his mess by the time Alex swings a paper cup by her ear, singing softly, “Medium oat latte, extra hot.” She continues glaring at Luke as she stands, snatching the cup out of Alex’s hands and shoving the portafilter into the grinder with a clatter.

She’s aware she’s being rude as hell and probably has no solid reason to be pissed at Alex’s friend, who’s done nothing but be cute and sit on a bar top that’s supposed to be wiped down every ten minutes anyway, but she’s had a rough week of Not Being Able to Throw Carrie’s Shoes In the Garbage Disposal, so she decides he’s just going to have to deal with it.

Besides, if they’re going to see each other every week from now on, he might as well know what he’s getting into.

Her temper dies down a little as more customers filter into the shop. She and Alex settle into a steady rhythm; he takes the orders and butters up the guests (they both know she makes better tips, but she’s not in the mood to be peppy today), while she whips up a storm of mocha sauce and steamed milk behind him with practiced ease. Calling out drinks at the pickup counter is so second nature at this point (“Small mocha, half sweet with almond milk!”) that she starts to forget the orders as they leave her hands, and the next forty minutes are washed away in the whoosh and whistle of the steam wand and the clunk and rattle of the grinder.

She doesn’t even realize Luke has disappeared by the time the rush is over, not until the café is buzzing with eager voices and the night lamps on the street illuminate the patrons by the window seat, their down jackets and frizzy hat hair backlit by a golden halo.

“Where’d your friend go?” She fiddles with the stack of hot cups, trying to appear as casual as possible.

The unimpressed look on Alex’s face tells her she hasn’t succeeded one bit. “He went to grab his six string from his car.”

“He’s playing tonight?”

“I told you, he plays every week,” he reaches over to grab the clipboard from where it’s propped up against the till, waving the sign up sheet in her direction. “Looks like he’s up first. I think I heard him saying something about a new original, but with Luke you can never be too sure.”

She takes the paper from his hands, glancing down the list that reads, “Morning Joe Jam Night! Open Mic every Friday at 7PM,” in bold letters. At the top is Luke Patterson, his name penciled hastily into the first row in looping scrawl.

“Is he any good?” She doesn’t even bother trying to hide her burning curiosity at this point. Alex’s friend is… _intriguing_ , to say the least. He’s quite possibly the strangest person she’s ever met—who sits on counters in public places and snorts coffee out of their nose without so much as batting an eye? She wouldn’t be able to show her face anywhere in the city for the rest of the day.

Now that she’s not raging to fight everyone in a ten mile radius, Julie’s not above admitting that his brazen attitude is actually pretty admirable.

It also doesn’t hurt that he looks like he could be the frontman for a ‘90s boy band.

The clock reads 6:58, so she reaches for the dial on the wall, dimming the fluorescents and flicking on the strings of fairy lights that twine around the columns framing the raised platform that serves as their stage. She sees Alex give a slight nod to someone in the crowd that now lines the walls, and Luke clambers out of the darkness, jumping onto the stage and up to the mic with easy familiarity.

“How’s everybody doin’ tonight?” he calls, smiling at the few scattered whoops that echo from the surrounding audience. “For those of you who don’t know me, my name is Luke and I’ll be your unofficial host for the night. I’ve tried to get them to pay me, but they haven’t kicked me out for playing yet so I guess that’s good enough,” this earns a rumble of laughter, and his grin widens. “If this is your first Jam Night here at Morning Joe, let me give you a little rundown on how this works. I’m gonna start us off with a song or two, and then we’ll go down the list that my good buddy, Alex, has over by the bar there,” he points enthusiastically at Julie and Alex, who wave sheepishly (or, Alex does. Julie kind of wants to crawl under the counter and die).

“Remember to tip them on your way out, folks. They withstand my screeching every week so we can all have a good time,” there’s a few more claps. Julie thinks she hears something that sounds suspiciously like, “I’d pay _them_ to let me work here if it meant I got to stare at _him_ every day.”

Honestly though, same.

“When we’re all done with the list, anybody who wants to join us is welcome to pop up here until we run out of time for the night. Sound good?” he doesn’t wait for answer, “Great! This is a new song that I haven’t had the chance to test out on people yet. It’s called Bright.”

He steps back, strums the opening chord (Julie swears his eyes flicker in her direction for a split second), and that is the last thing she sees before she is completely and utterly spellbound.

His voice is rich and warm, ringing out over the now-cheering crowd with a focused clarity that leaves her awestruck. She vaguely registers Alex passing a cup of water over the bar to a guest, but if he mumbles a sarcastic quip in her ear she doesn’t turn to catch it. Her gaze is cemented to the figure on stage, his eyes shining with unadulterated joy, his fingers moving skillfully over his acoustic, and she knows, she _knows_ in that moment that this is what it feels like to witness the extraordinary, to watch someone resonate on a frequency that only exists when they are doing what they were born to do.

It comes to an end before she’s managed to fully appreciate the impact that this one song has had on her life (her Mom has always told her that the best musicians are the ones that change the world in an instant, and although she’s never been wrong she’s never quite understood the implications of what that might mean until just now). The crowd leaps to its feet, roaring their applause.

Luke takes a short bow, his chest heaving from exertion, and then turns deliberately towards the bar until his eyes lock with hers, beaming with all the force of a small sun.

It’s a long time before either of them dare to break away.

* * *

Luke shows up every Friday as part of her new weekly routine, always in a sunny mood to fill her days with a steady stream of chatter. Alex has a class and never starts until a couple of hours into her shift, but she finds that Luke shows up earlier and earlier every week until he’s made a habit of bouncing through the door no more than five minutes after she’s clocked in. He works on new songs at his spot on the counter (she’s given up trying to force him into a chair at this point) and they swap roommate stories whenever the rush dies down and she’s got nothing to do but restock the hot lids. He tells her about Reggie, who has his own bathroom but drips water down the hall to the kitchen (she can understand the appeal of a mid-bath cup of tea, though) and named his hamster Pizza but insists on eating the food right in front of it (“It’s basically cannibalism,” Luke moans dramatically).

She learns some of the big things, like how he dropped out of college to pursue music and usually spends the rest of the week teaching guitar lessons down at the community centre.

She learns a lot about the little things, too, like how he dropped out because he struggles with ADHD, how his mom nearly left his dad when he was ten, how he ran away that night and they found him curled under the jungle gym and how there’s one song he wrote about it all that he doesn’t think he’ll ever be brave enough to perform in public.

She learns that he’s an avid listener, constantly peppering her with questions about her life and leaning into her every answer, his head tilted to the side in that adorable way puppies do to show they’re listening.

So she talks, more than she has in a long time, really. She tells him about her best friend Flynn, who goes to NYU and fits into New York life so seamlessly you’d never guess she was born and bred in sunny California. She tells him about her mom and dad and Carlos, who is graduating next year and doesn’t know if he’ll follow her out this way to Vancouver, and that time she built an underwater biome in a plastic Tupperware for her seventh grade science project and didn’t understand that the snails she bought needed algae to survive (to this day, she feels an immense amount of guilt and went around calling herself a Snail Murderer until she was about fourteen). She tells him about her classes at UBC, her professors, and the one chick that sits in the front row of her Psychology 215 class and wastes everybody else’s time by filling up the lecture with completely unrelated trivia questions.

She tells him she’s enrolled in UBC for a Bachelor of Arts.

What she doesn’t tell him is that she’s enrolled in the UBC School of Music, or that her focus is actually in vocal performance and composition.

It doesn’t start out as a conscious choice. Honestly, in the first month or so after their meeting, her major just never comes up. He asks her where she goes to school one day, but they move on to arguing about favourite foods (“Strawberry jam and _cheese,_ Luke?!”) before she gets the chance to delve any deeper. It’s not until Luke starts talking more about his music career— how he spends all his free time busking and playing shows at different bars after his guitar classes (“Not that I’d ever miss out on our Friday jams for a gig,” he winks playfully), and how he’s been putting together his best songs so he can start selling demos that she starts to feel unsure of herself.

Her childhood dream was to be a singer, sure. She even thinks she’s not half bad. But she knows she’s been sheltered in ways a lot of people haven’t had the privilege of experiencing. Her parents pay for part of her tuition fees, for one thing, and she was enrolled in her high school’s private music program growing up. She doesn’t even know how she would realistically get her name out there as a professional singer— if that’s even what she wants to do. She’s always just kind of assumed that the career options would open up after graduation, but maybe assumptions aren’t the way to succeed in life.

Luke is different. Luke is raw and unfiltered. He lives in the real world; in a dimension she isn’t sure she’ll ever be able to touch. He’s already got his name out there, playing regular (paid!!) gigs at different venues that have him on the shortlist of performers to call whenever some bigshot falls through. He works hard to stand on his own two feet and doesn’t accept help or charity from the people around him. All he wants in life is prove to the world just how capable he is of success.

Luke is star, and Julie can barely point out all the constellations. So the next time he asks, “What are you studying again?” she just smiles with what she hopes is a casual indifference. “Arts major,” she tells him quickly, and then moves away to ask a hovering guest if she can help them decide between a lemonade or a chocolate milk.

She isn’t sure whether or not to breathe a sigh of relief when he doesn’t bring it up again.

* * *

Fate decides to bite her in the ass in the form of Mr. Kraemer, an elderly man who swings by the café on the same evening that Luke spends three hours nearly tugging his hair out over his worn black songbook. Julie’s behind the till, sorting through some of the credit slips that were left in a jumbled heap during the afternoon rush.

Her eyes light up as she sees him approaching, and she quickly hits the grinder button for a double shot of decaf before calling out to him excitedly. “Hey Mr. Kraemer! How are you?”

“Old,” he says, the corners of his eyes wrinkling in a cheeky smile, “And getting older every day.”

“Well you better be careful. Pretty soon I’m going to be as old as you are,” she teases back. “The usual for you? Decaf dry cappuccino to go with two sugars, right?” She’s already holding out the correct amount of change by the time he pulls the fiver out of his wallet. He just chuckles, waving away her handful of change and tucking another crisp note into the mason jar on the counter that reads, “All Tips Are Appreciated” on its side.

“You hold on to that, my dear. You’ve earned every penny.” He just winks at her bashful grin, turning his sharp brown eyes to Luke, who is watching them curiously from his spot on the counter. “You’ve better not be giving her any trouble, young man. Our Julie here is the best of the best.”

She pretends to be fully focused on the pitcher of milk she’s steaming in order to stifle a giggle as Luke nods his head, the picture of severe obedience. “I wouldn’t dream of it, sir,” he tells him solemnly, but the glimmer of laughter dancing in his eyes betrays him.

“This is Mr. Kraemer,” she tells him as she wipes the steam wand clean, tapping the pitcher a few times on the counter to settle the foam. “He’s one of my regulars from when I was first hired. I was taking an extra class that semester, so I was only here on Fridays and Saturdays. He and his wife came in every week to see me.” She spoons a generous portion of foam into the paper cup before pouring in the rest of the milk, careful not to disturb the froth.

“I’ll make sure to let Anisha know you’re working Fridays again,” Mr. Kraemer says cheerfully, “She misses hearing your songs in the evening.”

Julie nearly knocks the cup over.

Luke whips his head towards her. “You _sing?!”_

“Not really,” she mumbles back, trying to ignore the way his gaze is searing itself into her temple.

“Our Julie has the voice of an angel,” Mr. Kraemer reaches out to pat her hand with a grandfatherly nod of approval. “They used to let her perform while she was working. Everyone wanted to hear whatever new tune she had come up with that week.”

She doesn’t know if the Teletubbies are hiring, but she’s pretty sure her face is red enough right now to make her a strong contender for Po. She wouldn’t even need the suit.

“A songwriter,” Luke is muttering to himself dazedly under his breath. “She’s a songwriter. Of course she’s a songwriter.”

“Well, I’d better get back to Anisha,” Mr. Kraemer raises his coffee cup in salute. “She’s making beef stew tonight, and Lord knows I’d rather lose a poker game to her brother than miss out on that.” He squeezes Julie’s hand once, twice, and then ambles out the door, blissfully unaware of the wave of utter chaos he’s unleashed in the wake of Luke’s new discovery.

The moment the shop door clicks shut behind him, Luke slams two hands down on the counter in front of her. “Why didn’t you tell me you’re a singer?”

She avoids looking at him, choosing instead to fiddle with the rubber handle of the portafilter. “I’m not a singer.”

 _“Okay,”_ he rolls his eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me you sing and write songs?”

She just shrugs. “I didn’t think it was a big deal.”

 _“Not a—”_ Luke throws his hands in the air. “ _Not a big deal?_ Jules, I’ve been killing myself over this song _all day_ , and you’re telling me I could’ve been asking you for suggestions this whole time and it’s _not a big deal?”_

“First of all, it’s _Julie_ ,” she’s done having this argument with people about why she doesn’t agree with nicknames. Her name is literally five letters, first of all. It’s two syllables. She doesn’t understand why some people are so lazy they can’t put in the effort to say her full name every time. “Secondly, how do you know my suggestions are even good?”

“One: I don’t care if you’re one of those lame people who don’t believe in nicknames. It’s a term of endearment and all my friends get them so you’re getting one too whether you like it or not. Two: you’re _Julie_ ,” he say this like it’s a mic drop on a dark stage. “I’m pretty sure you’re good at everything. And if not, then you’re one of those people that refuses to stop trying something until you’re good at it.”

She opens her mouth to argue—and then closes it slowly, because honestly, he’s not _wrong_ (she’s not a perfectionist. She just likes things to be done a certain way and she likes to do them right).

She settles on, “I’m studying music in school. I’m not super comfortable performing in public, so it’s not like I go around advertising it to people.”

“But you’re a singer, right?”

She sighs wearily. “Yeah.”

It’s a good thing there aren’t any customers currently needing her attention, because Luke has practically climbed over the espresso machine into the staff area, his eyes shining eagerly. “Can I hear you?”

She blinks. “Come again?”

“Your _voice_ , Julie,” he gestures exaggeratedly, “Sing something!”

“I’m literally working! Chill out,” she reaches up, pushing at his shoulders until he settles back into his seat, which is harder than it looks given the significant height advantage he already has on her when he’s not perched on the edge of a three foot counter.

She tries to ignore the way her fingertips tingle at the sensation of his warm skin pressed to hers. Seriously, doesn’t this guy own anything with sleeves?

“Come on, Jules,” he whines, his lip jutting out into a pout.

She fixes him with a stern stare. “It’s Julie. No.”

“Jellybean, I promise I will never ask you again if you sing just one time. I promise,” he wheedles, grabbing her hand and squeezing tightly, the thick callouses of his fingertips rough and solid against her palm.

 _Jesus Christ._ She’d always thought that she was immune to puppy dog faces. She’s been an iron soldier in the art of turning away a good pout and a watery eyelash flutter since Carlos discovered that being cute meant getting his way in kindergarten. But something about the startling grey of Luke’s eyes and the warm velvet of his voice makes her weak in the knees. She can feel the blush returning, a dark flush that spreads high across her cheekbones under his watchful gaze, and she tears her hand from his grip, staggering away until her back makes contact with the counter on the opposite wall.

“Nope, not happening,” she croaks out. The room is sweltering, and she can’t meet his gaze. “Maybe another time, okay?”

Maybe she should be more concerned that she’s acting like a fumbling lunatic, but Julie can only sigh in relief when Luke just shrugs his broad shoulders with a cheery, “Whatever you say, Jules.” She chances a glance in his direction, but she only catches the searching curiosity on his face for a split second before it gives way to his usual carefree expression.

Alex chooses that moment to stumble clumsily through the swinging doors, complaining loudly about his statistics professor and begging her to let him to avoid customers for the rest of the night.

She’s never been so grateful to be stuck on till.

**Author's Note:**

> The idea of Carrie and Reggie being bad roommates has me cackling lmao.
> 
> No shade to Flynn for not including her in this one, I adore her but her relationship with Julie is honestly so well-balanced and healthy that including it realistically would leave me no convenient fuck-ups to spin a story out of. I'm working on a university AU where she'll get her moment to shine, though, so get ready :P.
> 
> Thoughts on the story? Opinions? Let me know! Thanks for reading!
> 
> PS. I didn't really edit this also so if there's a bunch of mistakes please forgive me lol


End file.
